Jeremiah's Bell

by Denzil Meyrick

  Daley thought for a moment. ‘Text me the number; I’ll call him. Are you sure it’s that urgent?’

  ‘He sounded pretty keen, sir.’

  ‘Okay, send it over. If I get a chance, I’ll ring him back.’ He ended the call just as the radio burst into life.

  ‘Hotel Three to all stations. A vehicle, looks like a Bentley, has pulled up on the verge about half a mile from subject cottage. No movement yet, over.’

  ‘Daley to Hotel Three, keep a watching brief. Let me know the minute you see anything.’ He thought instantly of Chiase.

  ‘Roger, will do, sir.’

  Daley pondered for a few moments. There were few explanations. Unless Ginny Doig had managed to steal another car, which he thought unlikely, this could just be a member of the public taking in the scenery, or it could be the American gangster. They couldn’t close the road to the public or the matriarch of the Doig family would have known she was entering a trap. In any event, he was still fervently hoping that nothing would happen and the whole operation would be called off. It would mean a hunt for Doig and Chiase, but that was by far the better option. This was just too risky.

  His radio crackled into life again.

  ‘Hotel Three, male IC1 leaving the vehicle, just climbed the fence, over.’

  ‘Intercept, Hotel Three! To all stations, assist Hotel Three immediately! We’ll maintain our position observing Rowan Tree Cottage.’ Daley heard his order being confirmed by the various officers nearby. If this was Chiase, he couldn’t take risks.

  Scott and Alice Wenger sipped at black tea from two cracked old mugs. It was without sugar or milk, but at least it was warming and might just keep him awake, he thought. They’d both heard the radio traffic, and the atmosphere in the room had changed.

  Wenger was staring into the fire, its flames reflecting in her blue eyes.

  ‘Penny for them,’ said Scott.

  ‘It’d cost more than a penny for these memories, detective.’ She took another sip of tea, still not taking her eyes from the fire. ‘That isn’t her.’

  ‘How dae you know?’

  ‘My mother isn’t stupid. She knows this place like the back of her hand. She knows you guys will be searching for her.’

  Scott thought about relating this to Daley, but reasoned that he would have his hands full with whatever was happening. He looked again at Wenger. ‘Best no’ tae dwell on memories, that’s my motto. Nothing but baggage we all carry aboot.’

  ‘I could be like my brothers. I’m sure they remember nothing.’

  All Scott could do was nod in silence. Remembering the blank faces of the Doig sons, he did not doubt she had a point.

  ‘Hotel Three to all stations, we’ve lost visuals on subject. Repeat, we’ve lost visuals.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Daley. This was what he had feared. All the officers he had available were firearms trained, but not part of the tactical unit snowbound in Glasgow. ‘Update, Hotel Three!’

  ‘Sir, we saw him cross the field, but by the time we caught up he was out of sight.’

  ‘There’s snow on the ground. Can’t you follow his footsteps?’

  ‘Hotel Three to DCI Daley. Mainly boulders, sir. The sea has washed the snow away in most places.’

  Daley cursed himself for the stupid comment. Of course the snow on the beach would now have been melted by the incoming tide; that was obvious. He was about to contact Scott when the radio burst into life again.

  ‘Hotel Four to all stations. We have eyes on subject. Heading north on the beach, over.’

  ‘Daley to all stations, apprehend, I repeat, apprehend!’

  In Rowan Tree Cottage, Scott listened intently. It was a bit like following football on the radio, he thought. He was busy picturing the scene and those involved. He removed the pistol from the holster under his arm. ‘You cannae be too careful,’ he said to Wenger, who was now looking more than a little alarmed.

  ‘Are you sure your guys are up to this?’

  ‘Oh aye, nae bother. But belts an’ braces, me.’

  ‘This is a guy, right? On the beach, I mean.’

  ‘Appears tae be, aye.’

  ‘So what about my mother?’

  ‘Good question,’ said Scott, feeling the heft of the firearm in his left hand.

  Daley was holding his breath, waiting for more from his teams on the beach. In police work, the old maxim that no news was good news just didn’t apply.

  ‘What do you reckon, sir?’ asked the constable beside him.

  ‘Not sure, son . . .’ The crack of a shot carried on the cold air stopped him in mid-sentence. ‘Hotel Three, Four, report, over!’

  The silence was agonising. Daley could feel his heart thump rapidly in his chest; for him, not a welcome sound.

  Then, ‘Hotel Four to all stations, subject apprehended. I repeat, subject apprehended.’

  ‘Hotel Four, arrest subject and remove him from the locus, over.’

  ‘Yes, sir, over.’

  ‘Is it Chiase?’

  ‘Negative, sir. The subject doesn’t match the image we have of Chiase. Armed with a semi-automatic pistol, which he has been relieved of, sir.’

  ‘Is everyone okay?’

  ‘That’s affirmative, sir. Including the suspect, out.’

  ‘There you are, eh? I wonder who the hell that was? How many enemies have you got?’ Scott placed his weapon back in the holster.

  ‘Plenty,’ replied Alice Wenger.

  Behind them, the old door creaked open.

  ‘Jeest stay where yous are, right!’ In the doorway stood the tiny figure of Ginny Doig, a large hunting rifle held out before her.

  54

  ‘So, Mom, you made it. Where have you been, hiding in the walls?’

  ‘You shut up, Alison. You should have stayed in America.’

  ‘Right, Mrs Doig,’ said Scott. ‘Just put the weapon down. We can sort this withoot the gun.’

  ‘Huh, you! Could they no’ find anyone of any use tae guard my daughter? My boys made short work o’ you and the skinny laddie you were wae the last time. I see I’ll have tae dae the business myself noo.’

  Scott made to stand.

  ‘Sit back doon or I swear I’ll shoot you. I’m an auld woman. I’ve lost my husband and my eldest son. Come tae that, I lost all my boys a long time ago.’ She glanced at Alice Wenger. ‘And here’s the very one I was quite happy never tae see again, bold as brass.’

  ‘You sure ain’t changed, Ma.’ Wenger sat back in the chair. She looked calm, almost untroubled by her rifle-toting mother.

  ‘No, you can rely upon that. And I still have the same regrets I’ve had all these years.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Are you gonna keep us in suspense?’

  Looking on, Scott admired Wenger’s sangfroid. She spoke in even, moderated tones, a hint of a smile playing across her lips. ‘Right, that’s enough of this!’ he said.

  ‘No’ until you hear the truth, officer.’

  ‘We can dae that back in the office in Kinloch. You’re only making things hard for yourself, Mrs Doig. It’s just going tae get you the jail.’

  ‘As I said, I’ve nothing tae lose. But my daughter has. She’s many a tale tae tell.’

  ‘You mean how you treated me in this – hovel?’

  ‘You were a little whore, nothing mair!’

  Scott noted that Alice Wenger’s expression had changed. Her calm, almost serene expression was now one of growing fury.

  ‘Tell the detective what you let them do to me, Mother!’

  ‘They never touched you! You tell him what you did to them, Alison.’

  ‘Don’t call me that. How many times?’

  ‘I’ll tell him what really happened,’ said Ginny Doig.

  ‘See if I care, you mad old bitch,’ retorted her daughter.

  ‘Tell me without the rifle, Mrs Doig.’

  ‘No, nor will I. But you’ll sit down – the both of yous – and you’ll listen.’

  ‘Let her ramble on, detective,’ said
Alice Wenger. ‘She and my father are born liars.’

  ‘She couldna keep her nose oot o’ anything. She knew her faither was writing stuff, so she had tae read it.’

  ‘Crime of the century, Ma.’

  ‘One night, she got a hold o’ sleeping tablets fae that posh Cunningham lassie. Her mother was troubled wae her nerves, as I recall. She crushed them up and put them in oor last cup o’ tea before bedtime.’

  ‘This is priceless,’ said Wenger.

  ‘Shut up!’ Ginny Doig pushed the rifle in her direction.

  ‘Was this how you managed tae run away?’ said Scott.

  ‘No, she did that later. She had tae punish us all first.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘She took her brothers’ minds away, that’s how!’ Tears were now streaming down Ginny’s face, the rifle shaking in her hands. ‘She took a knife tae their brains, that’s whoot she did. They’ve been like the walking deid ever since.’

  Alice Wenger stood, facing her mother, towering over the tiny woman with the hunting rifle. ‘But you let them do what they wanted to me. I was only a kid, but you didn’t care. My father knew the truth, but he wouldn’t stand up to you.’

  ‘Ach, it was a bit o’ rough an’ tumble – a carry-on. You were always a sleekit wee lassie, telling tales, making up stuff.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Sure, I had every right to tell tales. This wasn’t just “rough and tumble”, as you put it. You know what they did, Mother, and they did it again and again!’

  ‘Shite, you’re a liar.’

  ‘You wondered why I ran off, didn’t you?’

  ‘I was glad you went.’

  ‘I ran away because I was pregnant, Mother, pregnant by one of your precious sons. And don’t ask me which one, because I’ve no idea. Oh yeah, I took their minds. I wish I’d killed them. All you could do was pin me down and try to do the same thing.’ Wenger touched the lump over her eye. ‘But like everything else, you were too stupid to know what to do.’

  Scott looked from one to the other. Ginny Doig had advanced into the centre of the room, the rifle to her eye, equidistant between Scott and her daughter, who was now standing in front of a grubby window.

  ‘You’re lying, Alison.’

  Wenger began to cry. She looked at her mother in desperation. Her voice was weak now, almost a pleading whisper. ‘Why, after all these years, won’t you believe me? You’re my mother. And you’re also the grandmother of my son.’

  Slowly, Ginny Doig looked defeated. She appeared to fold in on herself, letting out the agonised sigh, the silent scream of a tortured soul, someone for whom life had been a struggle between truth and denial.

  As Scott looked on, he saw her lower the rifle, her chest heaving for breath. But before he could move, Alice Wenger reached behind her back and advanced on her stricken mother. As he went for his shoulder holster, he saw Wenger swing her left arm through the air. With a loud clang, the object clutched in her hand connected with the old woman’s head in a splatter of blood. Ginny Doig dropped the rifle and sank to her knees, then fell prostrate on the cracked wooden boards, her body twitching silently.

  Her face impassive, Alice Wenger let Jeremiah’s bell fall to the floor with a clang.

  Scott rushed to Ginny Doig’s side. He could feel a faint pulse. ‘Quick, hand me my radio. I’ll need tae get help or your mother will die. You gave her a hell o’ a dunt there.’ Scott looked up, only to see Alice Wenger standing over him, the hunting rifle held to her right eye.

  ‘Sit down, detective. You and me have business.’

  Daley’s face had turned the shade of snow when he finished the call.

  ‘Anything wrong, sir?’ said Fearns.

  Daley lifted the airwave radio to his mouth. ‘DCI Daley to DI Scott, come in, over.’ The silence was deafening, only a crackle of static to be heard from the device. ‘Brian, come in, over!’ There was desperation in Daley’s voice. Then, ‘To all stations, attend Rowan Tree Cottage, now!’

  He didn’t issue any orders to the constable beside him. He burst from behind the rocks and bushes that had been their hiding place and ran across the snowy field towards the road, slipping and sliding on the slick ground. He could see stars in front of his eyes and felt dizzy, but carried on until he reached the fence, gasping for breath.

  His young colleague soon caught up with him. ‘Quick, get to the cottage,’ said Daley through gulps of air. He watched the youthful policeman vault the fence, and with as much speed as he could muster did the same.

  His nagging doubts had been justified; they rarely let him down. He’d been wrong – they’d all been wrong. Why had he ignored his own instincts?

  The rifle still close to his head, Scott made for the chair, hands held high.

  ‘Listen, Alice, whatever you did was a long time ago. You were a kid – you were abused. We can sort this all oot.’

  ‘I know how cops “sort things oot”, detective. You have no idea what I know, how I’ve had to fight to survive. I’ve always hated my family, but I needed the Doig genes. They’ve made me who I am.’

  As Scott turned to sit, she caught him a vicious blow to the side of his face, so that he fell on the old chair with a thud, groaning in pain. Wenger put the rifle on the floor and from her handbag pulled out a smaller bag.

  Scott was drifting in and out of consciousness. The room seemed to revolve around his head and he felt sick. Desperately, he tried to stand, but he simply slumped further back in the chair.

  Alice Wenger loomed over him now, two small metallic objects in her hand. ‘This is the best thing my daddy ever taught me. Leastwise, he wrote it down. I’ll make sure my mother won’t survive, and by the time I’m finished with you you won’t remember jack shit. I’ll blame everything on her, just like she deserves.’ She knelt on the knee of the squirming policeman, pinning him to the chair.

  Desperately, Scott tried to push her away, but he could see the darkness of unconsciousness pooling in his eyes.

  Wenger appraised him with a smile on her face, her head canted to one side, the way a mother would look at a child. ‘By the time your buddies arrive I’ll have hit my head on the wall a couple of times, and you’ll be a zombie. The brave cop who gave his mind to save the poor woman he was guarding.’

  As Scott struggled underneath her weight she thrust something sharp into the gap between his left eye and his eyebrow. ‘Time to say goodbye, detective.’

  55

  As Daley neared the end of the long lane to Rowan Tree Cottage he could see his colleague turning the corner into the yard. When he arrived there himself there was no sign of the young constable.

  Looking around desperately, he stumbled to the front door, still gasping for breath. It was half open, so he pushed his way inside, hearing the wail of police sirens in the distance. He had to focus to remember the layout of the cottage as he gulped air. He heard a noise coming from behind one door. When he opened it he saw the still body of Ginny Doig on the floor, while Constable Fearns was struggling with Alice Wenger, who was brandishing a small knife. But it was the sight of the slumped figure in the chair that almost made him cry out. Brian Scott looked lifeless, a stream of blood pouring from one eye.

  He caught Wenger by the scruff of the neck and pulled her backwards, making her yell furiously while Fearns wrenched the knife out of her hand and applied the cuffs. As soon as that was done, Daley ran to his stricken colleague.

  ‘Brian, can you hear me? Brian!’ He knelt over Scott and pulled back his head. One side of his face was now covered in blood, and his eyes were rolling in their sockets.

  As more officers piled into the room, Daley shouted orders. ‘Check Mrs Doig and get an ambulance here now! Brian, help’s coming, I promise.’ He looked into Scott’s face once more. He thought he caught a spark of recognition in the uninjured eye, though his friend’s mouth was gaping open like a dead fish. ‘Brian!’ Daley tapped him gently on the cheek with his paw of a hand.

  Without warning Scott focused on his face, but Da
ley could see no recognition in that stare as he tried to examine the damaged eye. It was impossible to see how badly injured he was, so all Daley could do was fish a hanky from his pocket and hold it against the wound to try to stem the bleeding. Scott’s mouth moved as though he was trying to speak, but only an unintelligible garble of words could be heard.

  His face pale and hatred in his eyes, Daley looked round at Wenger, now prostrate on the floor, screaming her hate and fury. ‘I swear to you,’ he roared, ‘if you’ve harmed this man . . .’ He looked at the rifle on the floor nearby. He felt a weak tap on his arm and turned round to face Scott.

  ‘Steady on wae a’ the shouting, big man. I’ve got one hell o’ a headache here.’

  Carrie Symington sat in front of Mike Strong, Daley at her side. ‘For the record, can you confirm you do not want the services of a solicitor, Mr Strong?’

  ‘I am a bloody solicitor. Who on earth could you conjure up in this damnable place fit to represent me?’

  ‘Good, then we can proceed. How did you get in touch with Vito Chiase?’

  Strong sighed. ‘Listen, I know I’m up the creek without a paddle. I’ll tell you everything you need to know. In return for a plea bargain.’

  ‘You know I can’t give you any guarantees on that,’ said Symington.

  ‘Maybe you can tell us how you first came into contact with Alice Wenger?’ Daley said.

  ‘She contacted me about some financial problems. She knew about the money her father had stashed away. She’d read about it in some of his writings, or something. The man was a bloody oddball.’

  ‘But he trusted your firm with the money,’ said Symington.

  ‘The rest of them – my firm – have nothing to do with this. I was acting entirely on my own initiative.’ He paused. ‘Can I have a drink or something? I’m parched.’

  Symington nodded to the constable at the door of the interview room, who went off in search of a beverage for Strong.

  ‘She’s clever, you know. But as ruthless as they come.’